


Flower Trembling on the Vine

by TurtleTotem



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: 5 Times, Attempted Sexual Assault, M/M, Master/Slave, Personal Growth, Phobias, hints of Erasmus/Kallias, royal intrigue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2016-12-17
Packaged: 2018-09-09 07:23:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8881138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TurtleTotem/pseuds/TurtleTotem
Summary: Supposedly, Erasmus is safe in Patras. Supposedly, all he needs to do, and all he should want to do, is obey his master and remain in his place. Supposedly...
(Or, Five times Erasmus was afraid, and one time he wasn't.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheTrainingofErasmus](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=TheTrainingofErasmus).



> Title from Sarah MacLachlan's "Fear" which is a gorgeous song that I will never get tired of, no matter how cliché it might be.

His first night in Patras, Erasmus was given his own chamber.

The journey from Vere had been long, wondrous in its way, but certainly tiring. Erasmus could hardly keep his eyes open, and if he and the other Akielon slaves had been given pallets in the scullery, he'd have lain down without a pause. The luxury and peculiar loneliness of having his own chamber, though, was enough to leave him sleepless.

The room was small and simply furnished, which was a comfort, and the window that stood open to the stars was unadorned glass, much closer to the customs of Akielos than Vere. Supposedly, Erasmus was safe here. As much as he could be anywhere.

He admitted to himself that he had expected to be put in Prince Torveld's chambers. The Prince had favored him so highly, almost from the moment they met, had been so kind and patient and had kept Erasmus at his side throughout all the journey—he had not imagined the prince's regard, Erasmus would swear. Surely it was not vanity to observe the truth. It hurt to think he might have lost the kind Prince's favor so quickly. But, of course, he had no right to expect anything. And perhaps Prince Torveld was simply tired and had no patience for timid, needy slaveboys tonight.

The little bed was soft and piled with blankets, but no matter how long he huddled beneath them, Erasmus could not stop shivering. His nose burned, his feet felt like ice—and the night was only getting colder, outside the open window. Left open to air the room, he was sure, with the assumption that a servant, and certainly a slave, could close his own window when necessary.

And light his own fire in the grate.

Erasmus took a deep breath, flung off the covers, and ran to close the window. That, at least, he could do without anything more than annoyance at the cold.

Then he turned toward the fireplace.

Everything was supplied for starting and keeping a blaze; flint, tinderbox, poker, abundant wood well-stacked. He had certainly done it before, more times than he could count.

He stared into the dark grate, fingertips tracing the scars on his thighs. Over and over. Over and over.

Finally, teeth chattering uncontrollably, he turned and dashed back to the bed, where he lay curled in a tight ball under the covers. Exhaustion eventually won out over the discomfort of the cold, and he slept, a little.

-

The second night was even colder, Patras inching deeper into a harsher winter than Erasmus had ever known in Akielos. He made it as far as holding the flint in his hand and opening the tinderbox, before his throat closed and his heart stuttered, and he flung them away, a startling clatter in the quiet night.

He could not sleep until nearly dawn, and then woke quickly from nightmares of burning alive.

- 

"Erasmus, are you ill?"

Erasmus jolted, horrified that his attention had wandered, now of all times. Prince Torveld had asked for Erasmus to serve at dinner, the first time they'd seen each other since they arrived at the palace in Bazal. Awaiting further orders after serving the soup, Erasmus had nearly dozed off against the wall.

"This slave is perfectly well, my lord," Erasmus stammered.

"You don't look perfectly well. Come here."

Erasmus did as bidden—of course—and approached Prince Torveld's seat, eyes downcast and cheeks burning. The eyes of every courtier in the room were upon him, wondering at their prince's peculiar concern for a slave.

"You are quite pale," Prince Torveld said, with gentle fingers on his jaw, turning his face to the light. The words might have been a compliment, in other circumstances, but here they were said with worry.

Feeling pressed to explain himself, Erasmus blurted, "The Patran winter is a new experience for this slave," then blushed all the harder, because what if Prince Torveld thought he didn't like it here? Thought him ungrateful? "Certainly time will set all to rights," he hurried to add, and then, privately, _When summer comes_.

"Of course. I hadn't thought," Prince Torveld said. "It never grows so cold in Akielos, or even Vere… I hope your chamber is snug enough?"

"Certainly, my lord. I have no fault to find with anything." Except that he might have preferred another room, Prince Torveld's room… but even if other slaves could have been bold enough to hint as much, it would not have been in the midst of dinner, with all eyes watching.

Prince Torveld pulled him closer, the same gentle fingers sliding to the small of his back, and leaving a warm wash of gooseflesh in their wake. "I have not been able to see as much of you as I intended, these last days," the prince murmured, low enough that perhaps no one else would hear. "Perhaps you could attend me this evening."

Erasmus felt his pulse quicken, banishing his exhaustion. "This slave would be honored, my lord."

- 

"The prince has been delayed," said the guard in the corridor outside Torveld's chambers, when Erasmus arrived there after dinner. "You are to await him, and begin attending to the room."

Erasmus bowed his head in assent, and entered the chamber.

'Attending to the room,' in Akielos at least, would mean laying out a change of clothes for the prince, taking care of any obvious tidying or minor cleaning that needed to be done, folding down the bedclothes, and… and seeing to the fire.

Erasmus treasured a hope that the fire would already be built, since the day had been cold. In Patras, however, he had observed that even the highest nobility seemed to guard their comfort less vigorously than in Akielos; a man was sneered at if he insisted on being coddled at every step. Accordingly, the fire in Prince Torveld's wide, handsome hearth was laid and ready, but banked. To Erasmus fell the task of poking and spreading and feeding the covered embers until they produced a substantial blaze.

He ignored it as long as he could, busying himself with every other matter he could think of, while his hands shook and his heart pounded. Finally he found himself standing before the fireplace, hands brushing up and down the hidden scars on his thighs. Should the prince arrive now, it could only be obvious that Erasmus had deliberately left the fire undone. He swallowed, and forced his hand to close around the poker.

When Prince Torveld entered the room some minutes later, Erasmus knew he presented a humiliating picture—curled up sobbing on his side before the still-banked fire. Instantly he scrambled to his feet, wiping his face.

"M-my lord, oh, please forgive—this weak and stupid slave—"

"Erasmus, stars above, are you hurt?"

"No, my lord." Oh, could he not die on the spot, if he only wished for it hard enough? If Prince Torveld sold him off to be an innkeeper's drudge, it would be better than he deserved.

Prince Torveld, stepping close to put a hesitant hand on Erasmus's shoulder, looked from him to the fire and the abandoned poker. His face changed. _"Fire._ Of course. Poor lad, I should have thought. Erasmus, darling, pray don't cry—I should not have asked this of you. I did not mean to do so."

Erasmus's tears stopped instantly, if only from shock. Had the prince called him _darling?_ Had he—no, of course he had not apologized to a slave, yet his words came startlingly close.

"Come away, darling. You can bear to have the fire lit, I think—you've not flinched from the hearth in other rooms—you just cannot touch it yourself, is that correct? There, I thought so. Stand back a bit, I will get it burning."

Erasmus stood, shivering and uncertain and mortified, while his master tended the fire himself. He soon had it burning merrily, the warmth it gave the room a fair price for its uneasy presence, so long as Erasmus didn't have to step too close.

Erasmus gathered the ragged shreds of his composure, and was ready to serve, staring down at the floor with his hands clasped behind him, as soon as Prince Torveld turned from the hearth.

"Your evening robes are laid out, if the selection pleases my lord, and if my lord wishes, there—"

"Erasmus." Prince Torveld cupped Erasmus's cheek in his hand. "You will not be tasked with lighting fires any more. I will make sure the steward knows this is by my own order. May I safely assume your room has been too cold for you to sleep well?"

Erasmus, still avoiding the prince's soft gaze, managed a nod, and tried desperately to breathe without sniffling.

"Well, never mind that." The hand on his cheek became a caress, thumb brushing softly along his cheekbone. "You'll sleep here with me from now on."


	2. Chapter 2

Prince Torveld was a very handsome man, tall and strong, with just enough hair on his chest to be masculine and _interesting_. Erasmus liked that he kept his beard short and neat. He even liked the elegant little touches of gray in Torveld's hair. The way the prince touched him—always so gentle and soft, but with the strength of an experienced soldier behind it—often made him feel as if he were melting, a sweet mess trusting someone else to clean it up again. He was delighted to be held and petted and cosseted every night in the prince's bed. Part of him was disappointed and even anxious that his master made no further demands—or even suggestions—than that.

Another, larger part of him was relieved.

Erasmus knew what he was, what he was made for and trained for all his life. He knew what should happen between a master and a pleasure slave, though that knowledge had been largely theoretical before he was sent to Vere. What he had learned in Vere was not—he had to believe—applicable in a general way. Not all men were like Govart. _Prince Torveld would not be like Govart_ , he believed that.

And yet Erasmus flinched when another servant unexpectedly grabbed his arm. He shrank from the crowd of courtiers when their laughter grew drunken and loud. He woke in the middle of the night, and muffled sobs of residual terror from the nightmares of grasping hands and… rougher things he did not want to think about.

In other ways he was adapting well to his new home. Service protocol in Patras was less stringent than Akielos, and the new slaves were teased for their stiff spines and formal phrases—but not unkindly. Certainly they were also praised for their obedience and skill, and various areas of the palace fought heatedly to get Akielons assigned to them. Erasmus himself might have been snapped up by the palace artisans if not for Prince Torveld's rather glowering intervention.

Erasmus was happy, from day to day, and tried to think of neither the past nor the future.

One night, nearly two months after their arrival in Bazal, Erasmus found himself with the time and inclination for a proper bath. Of course he kept himself scrupulously clean, as he'd been trained, but the palace at Bazal did not have the extensive steam-baths so common in Akielos and Vere. In winter, cleaning the body was largely accomplished piecemeal and via hip-basin. Tonight Erasmus brought the big copper tub into Prince Torveld's chambers, with an eye toward offering to assist the prince with a bath as well. He would never have been so bold in Akielos, but the prince seemed to find such initiative charming rather than presumptuous. And Erasmus found he very much wanted Prince Torveld to find him charming.

He should have had plenty of time to finish his own bath and change the water before Prince Torveld returned, but the door opened unexpectedly.

"Oh!" Erasmus's body jerked, trying to both hide in the water, and rise from it to bow, at the same time. "My lord, I'm—I didn't mean—I did not expect—"

"No need for distress, Erasmus. I can think of much worse surprises to find in my chambers." The Prince smiled warmly, and Erasmus let himself relax a bit—and then blush, at how thoroughly Torveld was looking him over as he stepped further into the room.

"You ought to be a painting," Prince Torveld murmured, stepping closer still and curving his fingertips around Erasmus's cheek. Almost unconsciously, Erasmus tipped his face up into the touch. "I never thought I could be jealous of firelight, but the way it kisses your skin…" He took a breath and seemed to be trying to settle himself. "From most others, I would take all this as… an overture. How should I take it from you?"

Erasmus could only bring himself to say it by turning his face away, eyes cast demurely down. "My lord is free to take it as he wills."

The sound of another breath, almost a gasp—and then Prince Torveld bent, tipping Erasmus's face up again, and kissed him.

For a startling moment, all Erasmus could think about was Kallias, and the kiss he had thought rough and loveless, a betrayal that destroyed his life. The truth had come to him later in a moment of horrified clarity; Kallias had done the only thing he could to save Erasmus's life.

But this was not Kallias, and this kiss was anything but rough or loveless. Erasmus opened completely to Torveld's gentle, insistent mouth, feeling once again as if he were melting, barely able to hold up his own head. Prince Torveld held it for him, cradled between both hands, kissing him slow and sweet and thorough.

Water sloshed and lapped around him, and he realized Prince Torveld was joining him in the copper tub, still fully clothed.

"My lord!" Erasmus could not help laughing, even as he made room for the prince and let himself be pulled into his lap. Prince Torveld was laughing too, looking boyish despite the faint lines around his eyes. "My lord," Erasmus said again, somewhat distracted as Prince Torveld trailed kisses down his throat and shoulder. "You're s-still dressed. Would you like me to… assist…?"

"Please do," Prince Torveld said, and proceeded to be as uncooperative as possible, kissing and stroking and caressing Erasmus as he tried to unbutton and untie, struggling to peel wet cloth away from skin. Eventually Erasmus, skin tingling and mouth smiling painfully wide, dared an exasperated noise. Chuckling, Torveld released him long enough for Erasmus to pull his boots and stockings off and drop them over the side of the tub.

"It's good to see you laugh," the prince murmured, pulling Erasmus back into his lap, to straddle the strong muscles of his thighs and press their chests together.

"This slave lives to serve," Erasmus said lightly, his hands trembling with excitement as he combed wet trails up and down Torveld's chest. The Prince tangled a hand in his hair to guide him down into a kiss, and it felt strange, having to bend down to kiss his master—but it was a service, of a sort, taking the effort onto himself, and that felt right.

One of Prince Torveld's hands slid down his back, circled his hip and thigh—it all felt wonderful, yet Erasmus could feel his heart beating faster with something much less pleasant than desire.

It was normal to be nervous, he told himself. Every slave was nervous on his First Night, and that's what this was, or what he wanted it to be, even if he was not unsullied, untouched, the way he should have been—

It was all right, until Torveld's fingers slipped down the crease to his entrance, the place that had ached so badly for so long, bloody and torn. Erasmus gasped and jerked away, almost out of the prince's arms entirely.

Prince Torveld froze immediately. After a long pause, in which Erasmus gulped air and tried desperately to say something, the prince moved again—slowly, settling one hand on Erasmus's knee and brushing the other across his cheek.

"There are other ways," he said softly, "many other ways to do this. If you want to do it at all. You don't have to."

"I want to," Erasmus blurted. "I want my First Night. With you. My lord." He blinked, then, belatedly realizing how extraordinary it was that Prince Torveld had offered him the choice—and after being as patient as the seasons themselves already, having Erasmus in his bed all winter without pressing a single touch on him that he didn't welcome.

Erasmus had always yearned to give himself to his rightful master. There was no more doubt in his soul that he had found that man.

Prince Torveld leaned carefully closer, touching their foreheads together. "Only if you are certain. I would not have you be afraid."

"I am afraid," Erasmus whispered. "But I would have you teach me courage, my lord."

"I think you have very little need to be taught," Prince Torveld said, and pulled him close for another kiss, sweet as warmth in winter.


	3. Chapter 3

Spring came, and Prince Torveld's brother the king returned, with his family and entourage, from the winter palace in the southwest of Patras. The palace at Bazal became a much busier place. Erasmus was called upon more often for general duties outside of attending the prince, which was no great unpleasantness, though he was flustered at first by the influx of new faces.

Mostly, things calmed again with a week or so, with new routines established, and King Torgeir showing no special desire to upset the order of things. He did take a shine to one or two of the new Akielon palace slaves, but—as Erasmus exerted some effort to discover—treated them well and was very pleased with their service. They were honored to have attracted his attention.

Other members of the king's retinue were less pleasant to serve.

At first, Lord Armod did not stand out to Erasmus, except as a source of the loud drunken laughter he was still training himself not to flinch from. Many men were such, and mostly harmless. Lord Armod, however, noticed the flinch, one especially taxing night, and—perhaps Erasmus was imagining that the man watched for him particularly, after that. Meeting his eyes across a room, finding opportunities to brush hands or jostle him as he served at dinner.

One night Prince Torveld, who had the highest opinion of Erasmus's voice, requested he sing for the gathered company—a love song with a somewhat more indelicate tone than Erasmus himself preferred. Judging by the audience's tittering, and Prince Torveld's own fondly amused wink, Erasmus strongly suspected he blushed during the performance. Which would have been only a small embarrassment, if not for the way Lord Armod leered at him afterward.

Erasmus told himself he was safe. It was well-known throughout the household that he was Prince Torveld's favorite; the steward moved gingerly even in assigning him general housework, lest he keep him from the prince when he was wanted. No one would think of requiring that a Prince share his favored slave's more intimate services.

But Lord Armod and his fellows were new, and brash, unconcerned with upsetting a delicate unspoken etiquette, and Armod himself—witty and entertaining—seemed to be much in the king's favor. Erasmus gradually realized, with a sinking dread in his stomach, that Lord Armod had little compunction about reaching to take what he wanted.

He was much relieved, therefore, the night after the love song, when Prince Torveld intervened. Himself a bit more in his cups than usual, the prince wound an arm around Erasmus as he served the last dessert, and had him sit at his side and feed him pieces of fruit pastry by hand.

"By far the best keepsake from my journey to Vere," the prince said, and Erasmus noted that he made sure Lord Armod was listening. "Or indeed any journey, anywhere. I have been better pleased by his service than any other in my life. I hope I am not a greedy man in my usual dealings, but for this I will exert royal privilege, and keep such an exquisite ornament at my own side and none other's."

He pressed a kiss to Erasmus's temple, and Erasmus made sure to look properly bashful, which was no inaccurate portrayal of his feelings—but he could not help smiling all the same. The Prince could have made no clearer statement that Erasmus was _his_ and not at the disposal of the court at large, and Erasmus was boneless with relief as he relaxed into his master's hold.

It did no good.

Only a few days later, Lord Armod, with a friend along to lend him courage, cornered Erasmus in a corridor off the kitchen after dinner.

"You're to come with me, pretty lad," Armod said, swaggering just enough to show the drink in him. "I know your sort. You do whatever you're told. You're not a man at all, nor even a boy, just a plaything. And tonight, you'll be playing with me."

Erasmus felt a ringing in his ears. All around him, his body was locking in place, hands white-knuckled around the empty soup tureen he'd been carrying away from the table.

"That's right," Lord Armod said, stepping closer. "Whatever the prince says, I can tell you're a good boy who knows your place. And that place is right here at my feet. Go on. On your knees, boy."

He was right. Erasmus knew his place. His only honor was service to his betters, his only pride in perfect submission. All of his training told him to obey.

But he belonged to Prince Torveld. Who did not want to share him with the court at large.

"My master," Erasmus began, weak and shaky, and Lord Armod put a finger over his lips.

"Your master need never know," Armod said, his smile smug even as his friend looked around uneasily.

Even if he found out, Erasmus thought, it was likely Armod that Torveld would be angry with, not Erasmus. He would know that Erasmus had no choice.

But he did have a choice. Prince Torveld would not want or expect him to do this. Erasmus did not have to obey this man. He did not have to obey anyone he did not choose to.

Armod reached out to grab him. Erasmus threw the soup tureen down onto his foot as hard as he could, and when Armod instinctively bent over, head-butted him in the face.

His ears were still ringing, and he could feel blood hot on his face, spattered from Armod's nose. Armod was shouting something but Erasmus didn't bother to listen; the man was still too close for Erasmus's liking, so he kicked Armod in the stomach as he tried to straighten up, sending him to the floor with a thud.

Armod's friend had run for help. That was fine. Help was good.

Bloody and bellowing, Armod tried to rise. Erasmus kicked him again, this time in the ribs.

"I am not your plaything," Erasmus said, and kicked him again. He had a funny suspicion that he might have spoken in Veretian. He said it again in Patran, and then in Akielon, and kicked Armod anew every time, until, whimpering and curled around his belly, the man shamble-crawled out of easy reach.

Two palace guardsmen rounded the corner then, led by Armod's frantically gesticulating friend. Prince Torveld was hot on their heels, and rushed past them to pull Erasmus away from Lord Armod's cringing form.

"My lord." Erasmus felt as if he were waking from some terrible dream to find he'd soiled the bed. Cheeks flaming, he dropped out of Prince Torveld's grasp to prostrate himself on the floor. "My lord, pray forgive me—"

"Did this man try to touch you?" Prince Torveld's voice was icy cold, and he was looking at Armod as he spoke. The guards were helping him to his feet, with some difficulty. His face was covered in blood.

"Yes, my lord. H-he wished me to come to his rooms." Self-doubt felt cold in his belly. He should have obeyed, he should have submitted—at the very least, he should never have offered violence to a member of the royal court—

"Then I am only sorry you beat him so well that I cannot justify striking a blow myself."

Erasmus blinked, daring to look up from the floor.

"Come here, Erasmus. Are you hurt?" Prince Torveld pulled him to his feet and put his arms around him, hesitantly touching the spots of blood on Erasmus's face.

"This slave is undamaged," Erasmus murmured, a bit hypnotized by the way Prince Torveld was looking at him.

"What is the meaning of this?" The indignant voice belonged to King Torgeir, Erasmus realized in horror. The king stared a moment at the hunched and bleeding form of one of his favored courtiers, being led away by the guards.

"This slave attacked a lord of the court," said Lord Armod's friend.

"This slave," Prince Torveld said coldly, "defended his master's property from a thief."

King Torgeir let his eyes roam deliberately from man to man, the full circle of the room, and fell on Armod last—without heavy condemnation, perhaps, but certainly without joy. "So that's the way of it. You reaped what you've been sowing, then, Armod. Brother, I will leave the slave's handling to your judgment."

Prince Torveld inclined his head. "Come away, Erasmus."

 

Safely within the prince's chambers, Erasmus went straight to the ewer of water by the hip-bath and dipped a cloth to wash the blood from his face. His hands were shaking so badly that he fumbled the ewer; Prince Torveld caught it before it could spill, took the cloth from his hands, and began gently washing his face.

"Don't," the prince said as Erasmus opened his mouth for an instinctive protest. "I would rather have this mess off of you than stand on ceremony. One advantage of princehood is having status enough that one can shed some now and then. There, clean again. Now come sit down."

He settled Erasmus onto a couch, and pulled the decorative throw from the back of it to wrap round his shoulders.

"I hope this slave has not shamed you, master," Erasmus said, his voice small.

"Erasmus, you have not displeased me in the slightest. In fact, I am," he cleared his throat, "perhaps more pleased than I ought to be. I have never seen you angry. I did not expect it to be..." He cleared his throat again. "What I mean to say is, Lord Armod is a pig, and ought to have faced this treatment years ago. I am pleased to have had the opportunity to witness it. I'm sure you understand that you can't make a habit of breaking the noses of obnoxious courtiers, but in this instance… Oh, lad, I thought I had protected you sufficiently. If I am shamed, it is only by my own failure."

"My lord cannot be reproached on any point," Erasmus said emphatically, turning his face into Prince Torveld's shoulder.

"You are the very sweetest boy," Prince Torveld murmured, turning his head to press a kiss to Erasmus's forehead.

A moment of silence, in which they remained huddled close together on the couch, and in which Erasmus realized he had stopped shaking. Then Prince Torveld spoke again.

"I spoke of you as defending my property, because I knew that was an approach my brother would not deny. I hope you understand, however, that… that what you defended was your own, not mine, not anyone's but yours. Do you understand?"

And to his great surprise, Erasmus felt himself able to say, "Yes, my lord."


	4. Chapter 4

Spring settled into summer, and if Patras was still never as warm or green as Akielos, Erasmus found there was still a soothing beauty in its muted gray-greens and green-browns. The palace at Bazal was somewhat less crowded, as courtiers drifted back to their own lands while the roads were good; Lord Armod, his disgrace unofficial but as obvious as his broken nose, was one of the first to go.

Erasmus was slowly assigned less and less general household work as his singing and playing came into more demand. He was a fad, Erasmus knew, and half of it was only an attempt to curry favor with Prince Torveld, but he loved having the opportunity to sing so often. He enjoyed learning more and more Patran songs, though his Akielon repertory was also popular, as an exotic novelty.

"I may have to start reserving your services for myself," Prince Torveld complained one night, as he mixed honey into hot tea. Erasmus had tried to give his master a song before bed, only to find his voice had faded to a mere croak. "Otherwise I hardly see you during the day."

"I would rather sing for you, my lord, than any other," Erasmus rasped. "Only say the word."

Prince Torveld huffed and shook his head. "No, darling, your love of music is like a light inside your skin—I would never restrict or deny it. But I may indeed start denying some of the requests for your presence. I won't have you singing yourself into a sickbed. There, drink that, your throat will feel better."

One request that he did grant, one summer evening, was for Erasmus to perform at a dinner held by Torveld's nephew, the crown prince—if only for the first hour, until he was expected to attend Prince Torveld in his chambers.

The dinner itself was lovely, held in a room just off a terrace, so the doors could be left open for the breeze and a glimpse of starlight. Erasmus felt that no one was much listening to him, but that was not unusual really, and no great sting; his voice was part of the general beauty of the atmosphere, and that was satisfaction enough.

At the end of the hour, he bowed to the gathered company, earning scattered but sincere applause, handed off the kithara to the next slave waiting to perform, and was just slipping out onto the terrace as an unobtrusive exit—when he caught a chillingly familiar face in the corner of his eye.

Erasmus froze, watching Lord Armod slide into the dining room from the terrace doorway furthest from him. He felt certain that Prince Torveld would have warned him if Armod were returning to court. He had not even been gone very long. What was he doing back?

Armod was dressed very plainly for his standards, gray tunic under a black cloak—as if trying to avoid attention. He took only a few steps into the dining room, to the back corner where several people were milling about in conversation, and touched the elbow of Lady Astra, the crown prince's mistress.

Without a pause or glance around, she excused herself from the company, and slipped onto the terrace with Armod. And further, off the terrace into the dark gardens.

Erasmus, still frozen in the shadows, told himself it was none of his concern if Lady Astra chose to have an affair with Lord Armod. But… there had been nothing of romance, of flirtation or seduction or even closeness, in the way they moved. Even now, out of sight from the dining room, they stood without touching.

It was none of his concern, but Prince Torveld's chambers lay beyond their spot on the path. Calling upon all the grace of movement his training had ever given him, Erasmus moved silently into the gardens, trying to give them as wide a berth as possible.

"— _Vask_. Can you imagine?" Lady Astra's voice drifted through the ornamental bushes separating them. "Selling his eldest son to some cow of a Vaskian, rather than honorable marriage to a highborn lady of his own land!"

"No one could be expected to bear such an insult," Lord Armod replied, all smooth sympathy and concern.

"Indeed not! My blood is pure, my reputation unstained—I have as much right to be queen as anyone, and more, for I have the heart of the future king. If he judges me worthy, what right has anyone to deny him?"

"You do the crown prince a great favor," Armod said, "in opening his path to greatness before his father can tread him down any further."

Erasmus stopped mid-step. What did Armod mean by that?

"Exactly." Lady Astra sounded as if she might still be convincing herself, but was well on the way to success at it. "And it's not as if we're upending the right and natural order of the succession. Only hurrying it along a bit."

"After all, without… intervention, the king might grow to be a very old man, and your poor lover spend all the valuable fire of his youth merely _waiting_ for the throne he was born to!"

Erasmus had to put a hand over his mouth in order to keep silent.

"But there are specifics to discuss," said Lady Astra. "Important ones, or you would not be here. Tell me—wait, did you hear that?"

All Erasmus's blood turned to ice; he had not made any sound, but that wouldn't matter if they found him while searching for whatever did. Fortunately, they turned their heads the other direction, and took a few steps back toward the terrace. Erasmus moved off through the garden as quickly and silently as he could, not daring to so much as breathe.

It was fortunate that Prince Torveld was not yet in his chambers when Erasmus arrived there, because it was all he could do to lean back against the wall and gulp for air.

What was he to do? He was a foreign-born slave, favored by a prince perhaps, but still with no status or standing in the court. It was not his place to take any part in royal intrigues. It was certainly not his place to judge or accuse his betters. His part was only to serve and obey.

Like his friends had served and obeyed in Akielos. It had not protected _them_ from royal intrigue. Erasmus put his hands over his ears, but it did nothing to muffle the remembered screams, dozens of slaves dying merely for being associated with the losing side of a coup. Erasmus had only survived because his beloved Kallias, instead of keeping his eyes down and mouth closed as he was trained, did something to intervene.

But if Erasmus spoke, would he be believed? The word of a slave was nothing, and his quarrel with Armod was well-known. To cry treason, and have that cry deemed false, would likely be worth his life.

But what was his life worth, if he would let this evil thing occur without even trying to stop it? King Torgeir was a decent man, a good king, and a dearly loved brother to Erasmus's master. How could he bear Prince Torveld's grief, if he did nothing? Maybe intervention wasn't his place as a slave. But it was his responsibility as _Erasmus._

Knees shaking, he poured himself a cup of water from the nearby ewer, hoping it would help settle his nerves. There was a mirror above the ewer and cups, and he stared at his reflection. He hadn't turned up the lamps, and the dimness made his hair look darker, his cheeks thinner, his Patran clothes awkward and strange. He did not look as frightened as he expected.

The chamber door opened. "There is my Erasmus! …Darling, is something wrong?"

Deliberately, heart pounding, Erasmus took his most formal position on the floor. "My lord, I have something very important to tell you."

***

"You may rise," King Torgeir said.

Erasmus did not allow his nerves to show, flowing gracefully from prostration to a standing position. He kept his gaze down, and made his hands relax when they wanted to fidget with the hem of his tunic.

King Torgeir's private audience chamber could hold two dozen people, if he chose, but today it held only himself, Prince Torveld, and the crown prince on upholstered chairs, and Erasmus standing before them.

"I did not wish to believe you, Erasmus," the king said, "when you claimed to have overheard… what you heard. But my brother vouched for you as staunchly as I have ever seen him. And events have, as we all now know, proven you correct." His voice was low and grieved.

Despite all his brother could say or do, Torgeir had only reluctantly been persuaded to increase his guard and take other minor precautions; these measures had been enough, it seemed, to alarm the conspirators into rash action, and likewise been enough to save him, at the cost of two longstanding bodyguards' lives. Two days previously, the king had presided over the execution of Lord Armod, whom he had regarded so highly, with an expression that could have been carved from stone.

"This slave regrets the painful news he had to bear," Erasmus said, when silence indicated the king was awaiting a response.

"The painful news continues," the king replied. "Lady Astra is dead."

At this, Erasmus glanced up in surprise. Lady Astra had been found guilty at trial, but not yet sentenced; rumor had it that the crown prince, now sitting next to his father with a sick and hollow expression, was pleading on her behalf, asking that her life be spared. Lord Armod's execution had been public—had they chosen to perform Lady Astra's more quietly?

"She was found in her cell this morning," the king continued, "with her throat cut. Multiple physicians have informed me she cannot have done it to herself, though some effort was taken to make it look that way."

"In exchange for her life, Lady Astra had been offering us information about further conspirators against the king," said Prince Torveld. "It seems certain, now, that they exist. Do you see the danger you are in, Erasmus?"

Shaken, it took Erasmus a moment to find his voice. "I do, my lord. They might discover who revealed their scheme."

"Come here, lad." Prince Torveld held out an arm, and Erasmus eagerly let himself be gathered into his master's lap. The intimacy was a bit odd in such formal circumstances, but if the prince judged it proper, Erasmus would be the last to contradict him. "I am sorry to say it, Erasmus, but to ensure your safety, we must send you away for a while."

"You are welcome to return once it is safe," King Torgeir said. "But that will be your own choice."

"My own…? I'm not sure I understand, Exalted." Erasmus felt his body draw up in tension, and, unless he was much mistaken, Prince Torveld's do likewise.

King Torgeir smiled. "You saved my life. I could never let such a thing go unrewarded. From dawn tomorrow, Erasmus, by royal decree, you are a free man."


	5. Chapter 5

All the world was pale grey-blue and cool, waiting for the sun to show its face, yet the docks of Bazal were already busy. Erasmus supposed his was not the only ship casting off at dawn, making its way down the river to the sea, and thence along the shore to Akielos.

Familiar trunks made their way up the nearby gangplank in the arms of stevedores, heavy with everything Prince Torveld could press on him—clothing, instruments, books. It felt bewildering to be told he owned these things now. Erasmus had never owned anything before. Not even himself.

"Best to keep these on your own person." Prince Torveld tucked a leatherbound packet inside Erasmus's new fur-lined traveling cloak. Erasmus already knew what the packet contained; a Medallion of Royal Service, his declaration of freedom, and a request to King Damianos of Akielos that Erasmus be given some quiet staff position, at least temporarily, as a favor to Patras. "If they should be lost, contact the Patran embassy in Ios."

"Yes, my lord."

Prince Torveld's breath caught at the words, and he tugged Erasmus closer under the guise of adjusting his cloak. Erasmus dared to come closer still, raising a shaking hand to Prince Torveld's chest. The Prince caught and held it there.

"You've never spoken of Akielos," he said after a moment. "Will you be happy to see your home again?"

Erasmus swallowed. "My home, as I knew it, is gone forever, my lord. Yet there are friends… one friend particularly, that I hope more than anything to find again." _Kallias_. His heart ached with the name, overflowing with too many contradictory things for him to sort, just now.

"I hope you find him. You may tell any friend of yours that he is a friend of Patras."

"My lord is kind." Erasmus fought to get the next words through his tight throat. "My lord has always been kind."

An approaching figure, a woman carrying tools and a large wooden block, cleared her throat. "Exalted, if you are ready for my services?"

"Ah, the blacksmith. Of course. Proceed." Prince Torveld stepped back and motioned for Erasmus to let the blacksmith attend him.

The smith was quick and accurate; the ringing blows of chisel against gold did not touch skin. She made short work of Erasmus's collar and cuffs, wrapped them in a cloth, and handed them to him; it was tradition that a freed slave be given the gold that had bound him, something to help him establish a new life.

"Congratulations, sir," the smith murmured, smiling at Erasmus as she withdrew.

Erasmus nodded at her, the wrapped bundle almost too heavy to hold, his skin bare and empty. The moment she turned her back, he burst into tears.

"Oh, darling." Prince Torveld pulled him roughly into his arms. "My darling, don't be afraid."

"I am _terrified,"_ Erasmus gasped into the prince's chest.

He felt a kiss against the top of his head. The Prince's voice was as thick with tears as his own. "Erasmus, you deserve the chance to see your homeland and loved ones again, to make your own life for yourself. I should have been the one to free you, but perhaps it is best I did not know my brother's intentions. I would not have been strong enough to let you go."

 _Don't. Don't let me go._ Erasmus kept the words inside him, with great effort.

"I'm happy for you," Prince Torveld whispered fiercely, "and so proud of you, and there is no doubt in my heart that you have the courage and wit and will inside you to do this. Do you understand me?" He tipped Erasmus's face up to meet his eyes. "You can do this."

"Yes, my lord."

Prince Torveld kissed him then, and again, and once more when Erasmus did not let go. And then the ship was casting off, and he had to go aboard.

Erasmus watched Prince Torveld's figure on the dock for as long as he could see him. Then, knees shaking, he walked to the other side of the ship, and began looking ahead.


	6. Chapter 6

ONE YEAR LATER

They let him pass at the servants' entrance, wide-eyed and whispering behind their hands. Erasmus hadn't been sure they would recognize him, with his Akielon haircut, the little scar aside his nose, and the short, neat, honey-colored beard that had bloomed so thickly the moment he stopped shaving each day. He scarcely recognized himself, some days.

The royal gardens looked so much the same as when he had left Patras last summer that Erasmus felt faintly dizzied, half-expecting to stumble upon Lord Armod among the lilacs, a hum under his skin insisting that at this time of evening he was due in the kitchens, preparing to serve at dinner. He stopped, leaning with one hand against the trunk of an aspen tree, and took slow, deep breaths as its tiny leaves trembled overhead.

Was it a mistake to come back here? That was the question that had haunted his steps from the moment he crossed the Akielon border. But no. Even if he proved unable to remain, he did not think it was a mistake to try.

He'd intended the gardens as a shortcut to the royal chambers he had called home, but only halfway there, he heard the man he sought, just on the other side of the hedge.

"—not as if there were any reason for me to take a wife, Torgeir, when you have so many children," said Prince Torveld, and the gentle, patient cadence of his voice, so familiar and so long missed, tore a gasp from Erasmus's chest. "And grandchildren, soon enough. Besides, you know how much I prefer men."

"Not that you've had any." The king's voice was dry and teasing. "Still mooning over your slaveboy, after all this time."

"I am not mooning." The words were wearily amused, as if they had had this conversation before, and punctuated by the snip of gardening tools. Prince Torveld had finally taken up gardening, then, as he'd always talked about. "And he's no slaveboy, as you might recall, being the one who freed him."

"And have you yet forgiven me that?"

A sigh. "Pray do not cast me as the greedy monster who would have rather kept my songbird in its cage. Yes, I grieved when he went away, but you know I did not need to forgive you for it. Erasmus had earned his freedom, more than he should ever have had to."

"Well, now we have brought him up again—my own fault, I suppose—you'll be in a mood the rest of the evening. Good night, dear brother; I will seek your company again on the morrow, when you have more desire for it."

"Good night, Torgeir."

The king departed, his footsteps crunching on the gravel path. Erasmus took a deep breath and glided forward, around the corner of the hedge. He thought he could hardly be more certain of a warm welcome, and yet shyness, stronger than he had felt in a very long time, bound his limbs and stopped his tongue. The best he could was to turn his foot, making a sound in the gravel louder than it needed to be, and thus attract the prince's attention.

Torveld looked up from the pink hydrangea he was pruning—and stopped, frozen in place.

Erasmus swallowed and reached deep into his now-rusted training for the proper bow. "Good evening, m-my lord—"

Torveld dropped the pruning scissors without a glance and swept Erasmus into his arms.

_Not a mistake,_ Erasmus thought, returning the embrace with all his strength. _This could never be a mistake._ And it felt—his breath caught, eyes stinging, surely his chest would burst—it felt far more like a homecoming than anything in Akielos ever had.

"Are you a dream?" Torveld whispered against his hair.

"No more so than I ever was," Erasmus replied, muffled against Torveld's shoulder.

"More likely by the moment, then." Torveld pulled back, though it visibly pained him to do it, and only held Erasmus's hands in his, warm and sure. "I've heard nothing of you for months, since you left the court at Akielos…"

"I traveled as a musician. There is welcome nearly everywhere for a musician."

"One of your talent? I have no doubt of it." He touched their foreheads together, and for a moment Erasmus thought he would kiss him, but Torveld held himself back. "I… I hope your first year of freedom was a happy one?"

"It was a hard one." Erasmus had to pull back, just a few inches; it was too hard to gather words when they were so close. "Not the hardest of my life, that was in Vere… but the longest, somehow. The widest." He'd been afraid of _everything_ at first. It was strange to remember now, and yet still as close as his own skin.

"Did you find the friend you spoke of?"

"I did." Surely it was not possible for a body as small as his to hold so much emotion at once, pain and joy and wistful regret and relief. "I am grateful to the depth of my soul to know that Kallias is safe, and happy, and _free_. And that he now knows the same of me… I thought he would never stop weeping. He had never thought to see me again. H-he has a wife, now, and a young child."

By the look in his eyes, Torveld understood more from this than Erasmus had meant him to. He said nothing, only gently brushed the tears from Erasmus's cheeks.

Erasmus swallowed, took a breath. "I learned a great deal, in the last year. And one thing I learned from Kallias is that… because a bond between two people starts one way, does not mean it must—or should—remain that way forever."

"Some things remain unchanged." Torveld stepped closer, cradling Erasmus's face delicately in his hands, and there, Erasmus thought with joy, was one thing that had not changed—the helpless melting inside him that nearly buckled his knees.

"You are not my master now," he said, and felt Torveld go still, waiting for what he would say next. "There will always be something in my soul that longs to surrender to the will of another, that finds beauty and pleasure and peace in that. But I know, now, what it feels like to have a will of my own, to choose for myself what I want, and reach for it with my own hands."

He meant the words as a sort of warning, that he was not entirely the same Erasmus that had left. Torveld did not seem dismayed in the slightest.

"And what have you chosen," he asked, "now that you have that will?"

"To come home to you. Torveld." He felt his cheeks flame, felt _my lord_ dance on the tip of his tongue, and swallowed it back. "If you would welcome me."

Torveld was smiling, wider than Erasmus thought he had ever seen. "And what does it feel like, to reach for that with your own hands?"

"Like this," Erasmus said, bolder than he ever dreamed he could be, and pulled Torveld down into a kiss.

The kiss lingered, and deepened, ebbed and flowed and started over again. Erasmus traced his hands across the muscles of Torveld's chest and torso, skimming his heartbeat, curling tight around his neck; Torveld combed his fingers through Erasmus's hair, explored the soft new beard, followed the curve of waist and hips to pull him closer. By the time they surfaced, both breathless and flushed, the dim evening had tipped over into night.

Feeling half-drunk, clumsy and smiling, Erasmus reached for the long matches kept by the oil lamps on their poles. Fire caught and crackled as he brought a lamp down and lit it, a steady flame to guide them through the garden paths, hand in hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POSTSCRIPT
> 
> The bed was fairly well destroyed by now, most of the blankets heaped on the floor with a single twisted sheet clinging to a bottom corner. A few articles of clothing, on the other hand, had somehow remained on the bed, lost among the piles of cushions. A few of those bounced off to join the blankets on the floor as Erasmus, tangled in Torveld's lap, succeeded in toppling him over onto his back. The only sounds in the room were giggling and kissing and the occasional moan—until Erasmus suddenly sat bolt upright.
> 
> "Oh!"
> 
> "What?" Alarm bled into the huskiness of Torveld's voice. "Darling, what's wrong?"
> 
> "Nothing's wrong! I just realized I forgot to tell you. I met King Damianos, at the court in Akielos, _and you will never guess where we've seen him before."_


End file.
